


Mere Gravity

by booksong



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange 2020, First Kiss, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, Secret-Keeping, Slow Burn, Timeskips, Wingfic, alcohol mentions/drunkenness, manga spoilers up to ch 381
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22608250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksong/pseuds/booksong
Summary: “Someone is standing against the back wall of the clubroom, surrounded by the cascade of tipped-over brooms and cardboard boxes of spare jerseys and supplies that he’d heard fall.  Between the dimness and the fact that this someone has his arms, neck, and shoulders tangled up in a T-shirt that was half-off over his head, Tenma can’t tell who it is.  And at that moment, it doesn’t really seem to matter who it is.His mind processes what he’s seeing in a quickfire series of snapshots.  A lean, pale torso, lightly defined muscles, broad shoulders and long limbs.  Whole body quivering slightly, like a person quietly laughing or crying or on the edge of some great swell of terror or elation.Wings.His mind trips over the concept.  Stares.  Tries again.Wings.”(A flightless crow with wings, an ace who flew without them, and a series of reckonings with trust and gravity)
Relationships: Tsukishima Akiteru/Udai Tenma
Comments: 8
Kudos: 114
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Mere Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marks/gifts).



> I did not sign up for this event intending to write over 14k more words of wingfic, but when the ChocoBox gods assign me Marks as a giftee and I see an AkiTen tag, who am I to question fate? Of course I had to dust off a plot bunny that, fittingly, got into my brain sometime last year while I was chipping away at The Tsukkiyama Wingfic Sequel™ (still ongoing I swear). 
> 
> That plot bunny went like this: If Kei has wings in this version of Haikyuu’s world, then what about Akiteru? 
> 
> And so here we are. 
> 
> *This fic does take place in the same AU as my tsukkiyama fic [‘Mere Curiosity,’](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113345) but no prior knowledge of that fic is needed for this one!

Sometimes, Tenma wonders what might have happened if he hadn’t crashed into the ball cart that day.

It’s kind of a silly thing to fixate on, but he still finds himself getting stuck on trying to map out each innocuous turning point that leads to a given moment. It’s a habit that was nurtured by and then reached its peak with his volleyball games in high school, though Coach Ukai told him more than once that thinking that way is just a spiral, with no center and no point besides. But the phrase ‘what if’ had sharp and clever claws, and so there was usually some form of ‘What if I had…?’ scrolling through his mind and keeping his blood hot for hours after a game, visualizing the alternate plays that could fan outward from those tiny splitting points. What if I had moved faster, planned better, been in _that_ spot, trusted my teammates more. 

Jumped _higher_. 

But what happened with Tsukishima Akiteru was both bigger and smaller, more selfish and yet less self-centered than reviewing any game he’d ever lost or won.

With Tsukishima, first he could ask himself the big picture questions: What if Tsukishima hadn’t even been born in Sendai? What if he hadn’t enrolled at Karasuno? What if he’d never joined the volleyball team, or had given up on it his first year? What if _Tenma_ had? 

And if you picked it apart more closely, just on that one day alone, you could split the questions down into countless others: What if Sumi hadn’t spiked the ball at practice that day so sharply that it headed right for the side line, so that of course Tenma had to see if he could get to it in time? What if he (or one of the others) had remembered to move the ball cart back to the equipment room properly, so that it wasn’t there in his way? What if he’d had a touch better reflexes so he didn’t barrel straight into the cart, the original game ball completely lost and forgotten in the ensuing spill?

And what if, that November afternoon, Tenma hadn’t realized halfway home that with all the shouting and worried checks for injury and scoldings that followed, he’d forgotten his bag in the clubroom, and jogged all the way back to school to get it with the sun sinking the last sliver down over the hills? 

Maybe there still isn’t a center or a point to any of it. But sometimes Tenma still finds himself asking these questions, if only to remind himself that everything really happened the way it did.

******

Tenma is hungry, and it’s getting cold now that the sun is almost set, and his hand hurts where it had taken the brunt of his impact with the ball cart. But he has no one to blame but himself for any of this, really, so he moves quickly to keep warm and hopes he can wrap this up as soon as possible.

He isn’t expecting anyone to still be on the grounds this late—they’ve been leaning heavily into morning practices instead lately, and his mishap with the ball cart earlier had sent everyone slinking home earlier than usual just to get away from Coach’s stormy mood. Still, it’s not unheard of for someone to linger behind with a ball to get a dozen extra serves in, or for someone like him to forget a bag or a change of clothes in the clubroom. So when Tenma puts his hand on the clubroom’s doorknob and hears a faint rustle and thump from inside, his mind swings cheerfully towards ‘fellow teammate’ rather than ‘axe murderer.’ 

He knocks twice, firmly, with the hand that isn’t still sore from contact with the metal mesh of the cart, just for politeness’s sake. He’s readying a greeting, expecting to hear a surprised question or maybe a sheepish apology if the person inside thinks he’s a teacher checking up on them.

Instead, he hears what sounds like a wild animal that’s been suddenly set loose in their clubroom.

There’s the muffled, tumbling _whumpf_ of cardboard falling, and over the top of that comes the hollow, ringing clatter of wood or metal striking concrete—enough people have knocked over the spare brooms while changing that Tenma knows _that_ sound. Then the sound of a locker slamming, but slightly blunted, as if what had hit the metal wasn’t the door itself closing but something or someone banging into it.

The thought of danger only briefly crosses his mind, quickly eclipsed by the possibility that this something or someone needed help.

“Hey!”, he calls, even as he already has a hand around the knob, pushing the door open enough to let a slice of sunset light in, to see what’s happening. “Are you—is everything all ri—”

He doesn’t so much trail off as feel the words evaporate in his throat, like there’s no more breath in him to get them out. 

Someone is standing against the back wall of the clubroom, surrounded by the cascade of tipped-over brooms and cardboard boxes of spare jerseys and supplies that he’d heard fall. Between the dimness and the fact that this someone has his arms, neck, and shoulders tangled up in a T-shirt that was half-off over his head, Tenma can’t tell who it is. And at that moment, it doesn’t really seem to matter who it is.

His mind processes what he’s seeing in a quickfire series of snapshots. A lean, pale torso, lightly defined muscles, broad shoulders and long limbs. Whole body quivering slightly, like a person quietly laughing or crying or on the edge of some great swell of terror or elation.

Wings. 

His mind trips over the concept. Stares. Tries again. _Wings._

The wings...are moving. They move organically, not like something painted or mechanical strapped to someone’s back as a prop or costume, but in the fluid, shivery way a wounded or startled bird’s wings would. They’re dark in color—not black like ink but something along the way to it, and there’s just enough light left for there to be a faint reflective tint picking out the edges of feathers here and there. Tenma realizes there are a few small loose feathers in the air too, joining the drifting clouds of dust motes lit up like fireflies from the light he’s letting through the door behind him.

The person the wings are attached to speaks. 

“I—ah. Shit.” There’s nothing vehement in the curse at all; it sounds hollow and lost, and it’s half-muffled through the T-shirt.

Tenma knows that voice anyway. 

He doesn’t need the confirmation, but gets it another moment later as those long limbs go slowly back into motion, unsteady. As the person in front of him finally tugs the neckhole of the shirt down over their head, their chin, to rest in a pool of fabric across those broad shoulders. Because it can’t fit down over _his goddamn wings_.

Tenma stares at his teammate, at Tsukishima Akiteru.

His face is incredibly still, unnaturally so, especially since Tenma has always been fond of Tsukishima’s outsized smiles and frowns of concentration. But now it’s like someone has frozen him, and only his wings— _wings for a wing spiker_ , Tenma thinks, feeling distantly hysterical—are moving, rustling slightly as they fold and unfold in a nervous rhythm that reminds him of someone clenching and unclenching a fist.

It was almost like a painting, he would think later, not just because of the lighting and their positions but because the image would burn itself into his mind’s eye for the next five years of his life. 

“Tsuki...shima-san…?” Tenma’s voice comes out as mostly breath, a question that contains all other possible questions.

He doesn’t know what to expect next, what to say or what to prepare for—at this point, with everything so surreal, he may as well be in the middle of a drama or a manga. Maybe Tsukishima will attack him, drop that frozen expression in favor of something more violent, before he silences Tenma for seeing what he was clearly never meant to see. Tenma has never seen Tsukishima so much as swat a bug, of course, but the world is currently tipped sideways and everything suddenly seems horribly and thrillingly possible.

Or _“I can explain”,_ Tsukishima might say, hands up and palms out in the classic quelling gesture. _“You see, Udai-kun, this is actually just a dream.”_ Or maybe he’ll say he’s under a magic curse. Maybe that he’s from another world and has a life-saving mission here on Earth. _Maybe that he’s an angel_ , Tenma thinks, apropos of nothing, his brain incongruously choosing to snag on Akiteru’s ruffled blond hair, the faint ladder of his ribs, the memory of his brilliant grin whenever Tenma glanced over at him after a successful flying jump.

He’s so caught in this spiral that he’s too slow to react when Tsukishima simply folds his wings flat against his back with an audible snap, lets the T-shirt drop over his torso, and— _bolts_. 

For the second time that day Tenma’s vaunted reflexes fail him, and he can only sort of sway to the side as Tsukishima nearly flings himself past him through the doorway. By the time he comes to and turns around, Tsukishima is already gone, just the vague shape of him visible sprinting away across the school grounds into the near-dark; not looking back, not slowing down. Tenma thinks of shouting after him, but he can’t think of a single thing to say that would make a difference.

Not knowing what else to do, Tenma stays to tidy up the fallen boxes and jerseys, stands the brooms upright, and places Tsukishima’s shoes, which he’d left behind, neatly on the bench. The clubroom feels like it’s holding its breath now that Tsukishima is gone—Tenma keeps glancing at the space where he’d stood as though he might suddenly reappear, maybe with backup or having changed his mind about magically wiping Tenma’s memories or recruiting him for his quest. But the room remains almost absurdly ordinary, and Tenma’s hunger finally wins out over trying to stay in this place, this moment a little longer.

He passes Tsukishima’s bike on the way back out, leaning drunkenly up against a fence where he’s apparently left it behind too. Tenma contemplates taking it for a moment, both so he can get home faster and so he has an excuse to see Tsukishima again to return it. But something about it feels manipulative, and he can’t stop seeing Tsukishima’s expression—or lack of it—when they’d locked eyes across the room. 

So when he leaves, he brings only two things with him: his forgotten bag, which he’d come for in the first place, and the feathers. Five of them, collected carefully from the clubroom floor; not actually black at all, he can see now, but each a different shade on the spectrum between brown and gray.

******

Tsukishima Akiteru has a seabird’s wings. Or so Kei’s friend Tadashi had told him, anyway. 

Akiteru still remembers how Tadashi had tapped very softly on his doorframe, one afternoon during those long, horrible days after Kei had discovered the truth about his place at Karasuno and refused to speak to him. He remembers the small freckled half-face peering in at him, and how he’d turned in his chair and pulled on a smile that he was at least close to actually feeling. Akiteru had always liked Tadashi as a person in general (and found it hard to imagine who wouldn’t), but he loved Tadashi as a person who was there for Kei. 

“Yo, Tadashi-kun,” he said. “What’s up? You and Kei okay?”

His smile alone drew Tadashi out and into the room in a way that made his heart thud with fondness and with missing Kei, who was just down the hall but hadn’t looked him in the eye for three-and-a-half weeks. The younger boy is hugging a blue and white book that looks intimidating for an elementary school kid, little scraps of colored paper peppering its edges where they seemed to mark pages.

“It’s kind of dumb, I guess,” Tadashi starts, manuevering the book carefully in his arms until he can open it. Akiteru’s stomach does something strange when he sees that the photograph on the cover is some kind of eagle, wings spread wide. “Me ‘n Kei were looking at this book a little while ago, to see if anything in it matched his...” Tadashi trails off and glances around Akiteru’s room as if making sure they’re completely alone, that no one is pressed into some corner that he hadn’t noticed, waiting to overhear. “. _..wings,_ ” he finishes, voice hushed with awe rather than fear, and despite the uneasy feeling in his gut Akiteru’s smile creeps that much closer to genuine. The most afraid he’d ever seen Tadashi look about discovering his best friend had wings was when he’d believed it meant he wouldn’t be allowed to see Kei anymore because of it.

He gave Akiteru hope. 

“A-anyway, we still can’t agree on Kei’s”—the stubborn groove between Tadashi’s brows when he says this tells Akiteru the subject won’t be resolved anytime soon—“but Kei found one he said looks like yours.” Tadashi opens the book’s thick, glossy cover and pulls open the pages to one of the paper markers, a little pale blue scrap.

 _‘Seabirds & Shorebirds’ _reads the bolded heading of the double-page spread. Below is a scattering of detailed illustrations of birds with plumage in all the colors of sea spray, sand, and stone. The shapes of their wings, sketched in aerial profile, spread in broad swathes or taper to sharpened points.

Tadashi carefully shifts the book’s weight to one forearm before cautiously resting his finger above one entry, eyes on Akiteru’s face as if waiting for his judgment of Kei’s choice.

The bird he indicates—a storm petrel, the accompanying text supplies—is a small one. Small head and beak, small body, small, angled wings that flared to softened tips. Its feathers are the bruised gray-brown-black of a building thunderhead, the darker hues shading to light and back again all across its wingspan. There’s something neatly compact and almost cute about it, and Akiteru wonders if there’s any mockery in this choice from Kei, or if it’s merely clinical observation. Weeks ago he would have known for sure it was the latter, but now...

“Oh, hey, look at that,” says Akiteru, as his wings shift slightly against his spine under the fabric of his T-shirt. “Yeah, I can see it! Kei really has an eye for these things, as expected.” Tadashi grins shyly, clearly pleased by the reaction, and Akiteru softens further. “Thanks for showing me, Tadashi-kun.” He reaches out to squeeze Tadashi’s shoulder, careful as he does not to unbalance the heavy book in his arms. 

Akiteru understands that his hiding the truth— _lying_ , he corrects himself forcibly—about his place on the team all this time has hurt Tadashi too, indirectly; that it’s Tadashi who is even now probably taking the brunt of Kei’s pain expressed as cold silence and snapped responses, even when they both know it isn’t meant for him. But Tadashi still came here with his bird book to show him this in Kei’s place, the self-appointed courier of a peace offering, like a living thread intent on keeping the two of them from drifting too far apart.

 _Good kid_ , Akiteru remembers thinking, with great feeling. And then, selfishly, _I hope he sticks around._

Akiteru also remembers how, later that same evening, he’d stood with his back to the bathroom mirror and tilted his head to look over his shoulder, one hand rubbing his neck aimlessly. His wings have always been smaller and more angular than Kei’s, his feathers the browns and grays of stone and clouds where Kei’s plumage had always reminded him more of all the different types of wood. The left one is the slightest bit crooked when extended, the result of a painful and never repeated three months of elementary school when he’d bound them tight against his spine with sports bandages, back when he was a child terrified of his own ability to keep them hidden. The way the colors marbled into one another in bands and shades depending on how the bathroom light hits also reminded him of the delicate shading on the photograph of the petrel in Tadashi’s book. The more Akiteru looked, the more he had to admit that Kei had found probably his best match out of an entire encyclopedia of hundreds of entries, and it made him feel proud. 

He remembers that moment because his pride in Kei had been familiar, but the sting that came with it was still fresh, at the time.

******

Tenma has read a lot of manga and books where, after a character’s big secret is discovered or an embarrassing confession is made, they find increasingly convoluted ways to avoid the other person. It was always an amusing but kind of frustrating trope for Tenma, who was more than ready for them just to _talk_ to each other and get the plot back to the cool stuff.

He’d never pictured it happening in real life.

He’s kind of stunned when Tsukishima is already in the gym the next morning, as if it’s any other day, but the normalcy breaks almost instantly. Tsukishima always greets everyone without fail, each by name as soon as they arrive, but when Tenma walks through the doors Tsukishima turns on his heel and calls something about grabbing more water bottles, even though there’s already a box of them on the bench. It sets the tone; for the next two hours Tsukishima always somehow happens to be as far away from Tenma as possible whenever he looks for him. It makes him realize how easy Tsukishima’s non-starter status makes it for him to melt into the background, unmissed.

It also makes him realize how naturally and often he’s been finding his eyes drawn to Tsukishima for months in spite of that, how much he’s gotten used to having him look back with a grin or a peace sign. It makes his distance now feel even more pronounced. And that’s...something else to think about.

Tenma has never been accused of being a particularly sensitive guy, but he can imagine why Tsukishima wouldn’t immediately want to see him or talk to him again, why he might need some time to get over what had clearly been as big a shock for him as it had been for Tenma. When a full day goes by without Tenma getting jumped, mysteriously losing his memory of the incident, or waking up to a team of winged sentai heroes in his bedroom, he figures that this part of Tsukishima’s secret, at least, isn’t like a manga.

A few other things had also been falling into place over the course of the day, as Tenma moved through school and then practice and then his evening routine by rote, his mind churning over not just the newly acquired fact that Tsukishima had real, actual wings but what that meant in the larger picture, all the things he now had to review in light of this knowledge.

Tsukishima was usually one of the first ones at practice in the morning, and one of the last to leave. His dedication was something that regularly invoked praise from his peers and juniors alike, but, considering where it had gotten him as a third-year, something like pity as well. 

Because of this, Tenma realizes it didn’t stand out as much that Tsukishima, in the two years that Tenma has been on the team, has never changed with the rest of them in the clubroom. It was a quirk that very occasionally got pointed out as a teasing comment or an offhand question, quickly lost in the flow of conversation. “You shy, Tsukishima-san?” “Hurry it up, Akiteru-kun, you’re always the last one out!” But no one ever pursued it; it was an odd, personal thing to grill someone about, and Tsukishima already existed in a strange place in the team’s hierarchy, afforded respect as a third-year and a hardworking club member but always only orbiting the edges of the team, the court, the game.

Tenma thinks of the times Tsukishima had claimed to have left his spare jersey at home, laughing easily at his apparent forgetfulness and going out to practice still wearing his school uniform shirt. The way he accepted and offered high fives with enthusiasm and that brilliant grin, but ducked away from backslaps, complaining good-naturedly that everyone always put too much energy into it. 

The wings were not a recent development then, Tenma came to realize. Tsukishima had been living with them for a long time, probably before he even started high school. Maybe even before that. Maybe always. 

That revelation, that moment, was another one Tenma would only pick out in hindsight, years later. When he understood that Tsukishima was probably not a mutant, had probably not been cursed or gifted with the wings like a manga protagonist, but had been born with them. Not a superpower, but a feature. 

Tenma is patient for three entire days of Tsukishima blatantly avoiding him, which feels very generous. He doesn’t give chase when Tsukishima’s path always pointedly takes him away, around, or parallel to Tenma, whether they’re at practice or in the school hallways. He doesn’t call out to him, he doesn’t lie in wait outside the school gates or track down Tsukishima’s address so he can visit his house with an excuse about homework. Instead he waits, and plans, and continues to revise his entire understanding of reality and of Tsukishima to include wings.

And on the fourth day during practice, he goes on the offensive. 

“Let me help you carry that,” he says, darting up in Tsukishima’s blind spot to grab the other end of the thick, folded rectangle of black fabric he’d just picked up. The managers had just been testing out the look of their newly repainted team banner for the following year’s games. “We’re storing it in the equipment room, right?”

Tsukishima glances at him, and there’s a beat of honest, natural surprise on his face before Tenma sees the exact second he registers who’s standing across from him. Then his eyes flick immediately upward to the air just above Tenma’s head and fix there instead. Tenma is used to people’s eyes taking the opposite course when they look at him, but he’s not sure he likes this any better.

For a moment, Tsukishima looks eerily similar to how he did in the clubroom that evening, frozen in indecision between a thousand different expressions without letting any of them through. He swallows once, visibly, and then says in a clearly strained attempt at his usual upbeat tone, “Ah, no need, Udai-kun! You should go finish your stretches, it’s not like it’s heavy.”

“Oh, Tsukishima-san, I meant to ask you,” Tenma presses on quickly, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I forgot my bag the other day, and I saw you forgot your shoes in the clubroom too, so I left them out for you. Did you get them back okay?”

Tenma’s pleased smugness at having finally pinned Tsukishima down falters when he sees what he can only describe as unfiltered _fear_ flash across his eyes for a moment. He looks like he would rather be anywhere on earth but here, and seeing the expression from just a foot or so away instead of across the clubroom means it catches Tenma in the gut that much harder.

He almost blurts out an apology on instinct, because suddenly Tenma feels like the bad guy here and he has no idea how it ended up that way. 

But Tsukishima is already speaking, his voice faster and devoid of all but the barest veneer of cheerfulness now. “Yep, I found them, guess I must have been in too much of a hurry that day! Hey Udai-kun, actually d’you think you could you finish bringing this in for me? I’m really not feeling well, think I need to head home right away. Thanks, see you.” 

He drops his end of the banner like it’s burned him and leaves Tenma standing there with his arms full of the fabric, forced to reevaluate everything again. He feels like he’s confirmed that at least Tsukishima isn’t angry at him, but the possibility that Tsukishima is _afraid_ of him is one that had never even crossed his mind, and that somehow makes it worse. 

Reviewing the failed attempt on the walk home between bites of meatbun brings this into better focus. He finds himself falling back on manga again; when people found out about weird powers or talking animals or classmates living among them that were youkai or ghosts, that kind of fear did come up a lot. There were unscrupulous scientists, shadowy government bureaus, jealous or loud-mouthed student council members who blabbed to the teachers. When Tenma imagines the entire world having to reevaluate its concept of reality to include wings the way he had, with Tsukishima standing at the center of all of it, he feels kind of afraid too.

So he doesn’t try to corner Tsukishima again, even though it goes against all the wild curiosity and energy that’s pinballing around his brain now that he knows he has a teammate with _wings_. He tries to refocus on school and exams, on volleyball practice and practice games for the next tournament. He tries not to let it sting that whenever he looks over at Tsukishima now, he never looks back.

The universe rewards him for his patience. Two and half weeks later, Tsukishima jams two fingers at afternoon practice while helping some first-years with blocking drills. When Tenma sees him on the sidelines with Coach Ukai cradling one hand carefully with the other, he acts on impulse. He isn’t really expecting anything, but he gives it a try anyway, trying to make the offer as casual as possible. “I can help him get it taped up.”

And just like that first November evening, everything seems to converge. The managers are off on an errand, it turns out, and everyone else is immersed in their assigned drills. And Tenma had just happened to have been stepping off the court to rehydrate and towel off his sweat, so even though he’s a starter and a second-year who wouldn’t normally be called to help with a non-player’s minor injury, Coach Ukai just grunts and jerks his head in assent.

The final piece clicks into place when Tsukishima doesn’t protest. He can’t really go against Coach anyway—even Tenma thinks twice before doing that—but there’s definitely a kind of resignation to his body language as he allows Tenma to walk alongside him on their way to the equipment room where the first aid kit is. Tenma only pauses long enough to dip into the cooler for some ice to wrap in his towel, which he passes over for Tsukishima to cup gingerly in his injured hand.

Tsukishima doesn’t look at or speak to him the whole way, but after a few tense, eternal moments of letting the silence stretch Tenma can’t take it anymore and just starts talking. He says nothing even slightly related to that evening in the clubroom this time, instead keeping up a steady stream of commentary about their last practice game, the serve he’s been trying to perfect, the new bread they’re selling in the cafeteria. 

It seems to communicate what he’d hoped, which is that he’s not intending to pry or to corner Tsukishima this time. Or maybe it’s the fact that they’re not surrounded by other people this time, so there’s less chance of anything suspicious being overheard. Either way, Tsukishima doesn’t respond to his chatter, but Tenma sees his gait and his shoulders are relaxing, and the air doesn’t feel as stifling by the time they get to the equipment room. 

Tenma scowls and swears softly when he sees that the managers left the first aid box on top of one of the higher shelves. He’s mentally gauging the distance so he can do a short run-up to jump for it when Tsukishima simply walks over and takes the box down with his uninjured hand. When he hands it to Tenma, it feels like something approaching a peace offering. 

Tenma has taped his and his teammates’ fingers plenty of times, so he only gives a cursory wince of sympathy as he moves the ice to inspect Tsukishima’s bruised and swollen fingertips. He takes out the roll of tape, and then holds out his hand.

When Tsukishima sets his injured hand in Tenma’s upturned palm, Tenma realizes with a strange start that this is the first time he’s ever been alone with him. The alone-ness of the two of them had only been remarkable before because Tenma had wanted Tsukishima to drop his guard, but now there’s a kind of solemnity to it, a new awareness of every sound and movement he doesn’t remember happening when he’s helped other teammates like this.

Tsukishima’s hand is bigger than his; he has long fingers and defined knuckles. Tenma can feel his calluses in all the same places he has them, from spikes and serves and receives beyond counting.

Carefully, Tenma guides the two injured fingers together against Tsukishima’s index finger and starts to bind all three with the tape. He’s bent over a little on the bench, and Tenma can’t stop his eyes from darting to Tsukishima’s shoulders and the faint curve of his back. _There are wings under there_ , Tenma’s mind whispers, and still it kind of feels like a dream he’d had. 

Tenma looks around several times to make sure they’re really, truly alone, and then he takes a gamble. The last one, he promises himself. He bites his lip, and with Tsukishima’s fingers still held gently but inescapably in his grip as he winds the tape, he says softly, “I think they’re incredible. Your wings.”

Tsukishima sucks in a sharp breath, holds it for two beats...and then lets it go. He doesn’t try to pull his fingers away, but he does keep his eyes fixed on the circling of the tape. “Udai-kun—”

“I’m sorry. It was stupid to try to talk to you about it where people might hear. I just had to let you know I don’t think you’re a freak, and that I haven’t told anyone else, and to be honest I still can’t quite believe it was real—they _are_ real, right?”

“Udai-kun,” Tsukishima says weakly, “Slow down. Please.”

“Sorry,” Tenma says again. He realizes that at some point he’d stopped wrapping Tsukishima’s fingers and forces himself to restart. After a few moments, Tsukishima speaks again, carefully, like he’s even now deciding what to say and what not to.

“Yes, they’re real. Yes, I’m still human. I don’t have any other secret powers or knowledge or anything else. And there are less than twenty people in the world that know I have them, which is why I’m extremely new to this.” Tsukshima uses his good hand to gesture between them. Then he rubs it over his face, as if he too is still trying to wake up from a dream. “Any other burning questions I’m missing?”

“Is anyone going to come after me for knowing?” Tenma is fairly sure the answer is no, just by the way Tsukishima had reacted and the fact that he’s still alive, but it’s the kind of thing he’d like to be certain about.

“Nah. I honestly haven’t even told my family that you saw me yet. I was hoping I could let some time pass and if you don’t say anything—” He pauses pointedly. “—then it’ll be a better case that we’re not in danger from you knowing.”

 _Danger._ Tenma thinks again about the shadowy organizations his imagination had conjured, the men in lab coats with light reflecting white and inscrutable off their glasses that he’s seen in all the movies and manga. Thinks of Tsukishima pinned to a table in a sterile room for study. But then again, something as simple as a viral video or a rapidly circulating rumor at school could be dangerous to him, with something like this.

“Oh, hey, I do have another question,” Tenma says without thinking; the mention of Tsukishima’s family had sparked his memory for something that had crossed his mind before. “If you’ve got them, then your little brother, does he—”

Tsukishima grabs his wrist in the space between one breath and the next, a movement as involuntary as the way he’d bolted when Tenma first found him in the clubroom. Tenma feels the bones in his wrist grind together from the force of Tsukishima’s grip, but when he yelps it’s really more from shock than pain.

Tsukishima’s hold shifts at the sound, but he doesn’t let go. For the very first time since they’d faced each other across the clubroom ten days ago, Tsukishima looks him directly in the eyes. 

“ _Don’t._ ” The word is a sentence, a declaration and an order and a plea. Tenma doesn’t think he needs any more words to accompany the look on Tsukishima’s face, but he keeps going anyway. “If we have to talk about me, we can. If you have to go tell someone about me, fine. But don’t you _ever_ bring Kei into this.”

Tenma wants to pull his hand away, but he also desperatelydoesn’t want to say or do the wrong thing again. Tsukishima’s tone rattles him more than he wants to admit. “Hey, Tsukishima-san, it’s okay, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Then he frowns, the words sinking in. The flash of hurt is abrupt and personal. “You...you really think _I’m_ going to tell someone? That I’d go run my mouth and put you or him in danger?”

Tsukishima lets him go. “You can mean well and still ruin everything, Udai-kun,” he says, and Tenma wishes he’d go back to using his previous tone after all, because he hates this one even more. 

He has only a vague idea of what had happened between Tsukishima and the little brother he talks about all the time. He had heard some of the guys talking about how the kid had been rattled seeing his brother cheering in the stands at the finals when he’d had some grand fantasy that he was a star player. All Tenma knew for sure was that Tsukishima had gotten very quiet after that game; the spikes and serves he’d always poured his heart into for whatever brief time he got on the court had nothing behind them these last several weeks.

He finishes tying and cutting the tape in silence, afraid to speak again and say the wrong thing, but also afraid that Tsukishima will simply get up and walk away now as soon as he finishes. He doesn’t want to leave things like this, but he doesn’t want to dig the hole deeper and make Tsukishima trust him any less than he already does.

When he turns to put the tape back in the kit, he accidentally brushes something soft and dark and bulky that was lying on the end of the bench. The pile of fabric falls to the floor with a thump, and Tenma recognizes it. He stoops quickly to pick up the folded team banner Tsukishima had left him with a couple weeks ago and sets it back on the bench. “Can’t have this getting dirty already,” he says, running a hand over it fondly; the only thing that says ‘Karasuno pride’ to him more than this banner is his own #10 jersey.

“You really like the motto, don’t you Udai-kun?” Tenma’s not exactly sure why Tsukishima is asking now, but it’s pretty clearly a rhetorical question; back when they’d unveiled it for the very first time Tenma very obviously hadn’t been able to focus for the rest of practice that day, bounding and fidgeting around more than usual and glancing over at it every few minutes with shining eyes.

Now he shrugs modestly, feeling only a little embarrassed. “I think it’s awesome. Short, sweet, to the point.” He doesn’t say it, but the first time Tenma had seen the giant, meter-tall white kanji, he’d heard the word in his head like a commandment. _Fly._ It had felt like fate; they were all crows, of course, but the banner always felt like it was speaking just to him in a way too.

“I’m not that fond of it myself.” Tsukishima’s small smile is wry, but at least it’s an expression that doesn’t make Tenma’s stomach clench. “I always felt kinda like it was mocking me.”

It takes a second for it to click. “... _Oh_ , because of—yeah.” Tenma shifts uncomfortably, feeling stupid he hadn’t seen that irony earlier. 

“Every time I see it it’s like...hey, you’re the one with the actual wings, right? So why the hell are you the only one still stuck in the same place?”

Tenma wants to protest, wants to say that’s impossible, that no one could work as hard as he’s seen Tsukishima work and fail to become better than they’d started. That the Karasuno bench is just that competitive and the starting team that much more so. But he does know enough to understand that those words coming from the team’s second-year ace would fall closer to an insult than a comfort, no matter how well-meant. 

Instead he says, “This is probably a really dumb question, but...you _can’t_ fly with them, right?”

“Nope. They’re not big enough—for wings to generate enough lift for an average human, they’d have to be almost seven meters across, and the catch is then they’d be too heavy to function anyway. Blame gravity.” Tsukishima says this like he’s read it in a book or an article, or maybe is quoting someone else who had. He glances at Tenma, looks deliberately up and down the 170cm length of his body with that same slightly tilted smile. “You fly more than I ever could, Udai-kun.”

Tsukishima doesn’t sound bitter, he just sounds kind of wistful and very, very tired, and it gives Tenma, whose language of affection has been shaped by high school boys’ volleyball into pats and punches and full body tackles, the foreign but overwhelming urge to do something gentle to him. Something grounding, like touching his wrist, or his shoulder. Holding his hand? He wonders if he can still use inspecting his jammed fingers as an excuse now that the taping is done. 

Before he can think of how to do it though, Tsukishima stands. “I don’t think you’ll tell anyone, Udai-kun. You’ve already had time to, and you haven’t. I do trust you, I just...please, be careful, for my sake. I’m sorry you have to be careful when you never asked for this, but—” 

“I’m not sorry,” Tenma interrupts quickly, because it’s true. For all the feelings he’s had since he saw Tsukishima’s wings, regret had never once crossed his mind. “I’m glad I found out. I mean, I’m not glad if it makes things harder for you, but...it’s a really cool thing to know, I guess.” That doesn’t even begin to sum it up, but Tenma’s never been the best with words.

“Not gonna lie, this all still scares the hell out of me. But I’ve been trying to remind myself it doesn’t have to be the end of the world, I guess.” Tsukishima looks a little sheepish, and Tenma didn’t even realize until now how uneasy it had been making him not to see a normal, easy expression on his face these past couple weeks. “And now that I’ve thought about it, it could have been a lot worse.”

“Could have been Kanata-senpai,” Tenma says with a little grin, naming their third-year middle blocker, who has one of the worst brain-to-mouth filters Tenma’s ever encountered. He’s relieved when it draws a genuine laugh from Tsukishima. 

It takes the last of the tension from the air, both the uncomfortable kind that had left Tenma afraid to make a misstep and the heady kind that had snuck up on him so strangely when he’d been wrapping Tsukishima’s fingers. They’re just two clubmates in the equipment room, now.

Tenma should feel relieved. Tsukishima doesn’t hate him, they’ve come to an understanding of sorts, and he knows a tiny bit more about both the wings and Tsukishima himself. He’s even in on an incredibly important secret, one almost no one else in the world knows anything about. He should be content with that. Case closed.

But it still feels like there’s something missing.

His first thought is that it’s just because he hasn’t seen the wings again. He’d be lying if he said it hadn’t been scrabbling at the back of his mind the entire time they’d been talking, a rude and relentless litany, _I want to see, I want to see, I want to look at what no one else gets to, I want to prove to myself it was real with my own eyes._

But Tenma is not stupid; he knows the fastest way to freeze Tsukishima’s careful, newly thawed trust in him is to ask him to see the wings. To make it seem like that’s his true motive.

 _Tsukishima is not a manga protagonist_ , he tells that voice in his hindbrain fiercely. _Tsukishima is not an animal at the zoo._

But it’s _not_ just that. There’s something else, something unfinished, something that doesn’t want to let him leave here the same way he hadn’t wanted to leave the clubroom that very first evening. Something that makes him nervous in a completely new way that he can’t quite put his finger on. Not yet.

The answer comes to him just in time, just as Tsukishima is starting to walk away, rubbing his taped fingers thoughtfully. The answer is a question Tenma doesn’t exactly know why he’s asking, but hey, he can figure that part out later. For now, it seems reasonable. Safe. Not about the wings.

“Hey, one more quick thing! Do you have my number, Tsukishima-san?”

Tsukishima looks surprised. After a moment of looking like he’s trying to decide why Tenma is asking and if it’s a trap of some sort, he fishes in his pocket for his phone. After a few taps, he says, “Hm, doesn’t look like it.” It’s not too surprising—Tenma’s own collection of contacts is haphazardly collected, requested only when he needs to borrow someone’s notes before a quiz or when he talks one of his teammates into meeting up for an extra weekend practice session.

Tenma pulls out his own phone and walks over, holding it near Tsukishima’s. A moment later they both chime. “There. Now you do.”

Tsukishima looks between Tenma’s face and his phone screen. “Is this for blackmail?” Tenma feels a little thread of relief that he sounds like he’s teasing this time.

“It’s so we can keep in touch, even after you graduate. Gotta keep up good relationships with my senpais, right?” Tenma hopes his smile looks easy, doesn’t betray how hard his heart is beating so insistently he feels the tremble in his ribs. 

Tsukishima smiles back, and Tenma breathes. It’s not quite that signature grin that always lights up his eyes, but it’s real, and it’s something Tenma didn’t realize he’d been afraid of losing forever until this exact moment.

“Good luck, Udai-kun,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

Even though they do talk and see each other at practice sometimes after that, Tenma still thinks of that moment as the last time he really saw Tsukishima in high school.

******

Not many months later, Akiteru graduates from Karasuno High School without ever making the starting lineup of the volleyball team, but with good enough grades and test scores to easily make it into the local university, and with only one person having discovered the fact that he has wings. In the calculus of life, he’s really not sure where that puts him in the end, but for the most part college keeps him too busy to dwell on it.

He’d thought it would be a nightmare to try and conceal his wings at college, with the increase in time spent on a campus, time spent around masses of people...he’d believed it would be an endless gauntlet of scrutiny. Instead it makes having wings easier than it’s ever been. Everyone around him is intent on themselves, their friends, and their studies—in lectures everyone watches the professor, and when walking around everyone watches their phones, their shoes, their notes for the next class. No one is looking at him, waiting eagle-eyed to notice the slight unnatural shift of his shirt, the stray feather stuck to his pants leg. His roommate is an unassuming engineering student who keeps odd hours and doesn’t seem bothered that he uses the bathroom to change.

It’s...good. Better than he’d hoped, in fact. He likes the coursework, he likes the easy chatter he can start up with his seat neighbors in lecture, and maybe most of all Akiteru likes being somewhere no one really knows him and he can start completely fresh.

Or he would be able to, if it weren’t for the fact that Udai Tenma seems to have made his promise to keep in touch in absolute seriousness. And because he’s currently the only person alive besides the Tsukishimas and Tadashi that knows about the wings, that means Akiteru still has one very real, very confusing reminder of Karasuno that he can’t seem to shake. Or want to.

It starts with just a few casual things; Udai sends him a brief text when the new first years join, when they win big at a match, when someone perfects a new combo or a specialty serve. Feeling it’s only fair to reciprocate, Akiteru sends token photos of his new room, the view from his window, his decent grade on a particularly challenging exam. Udai is an easy person to text, he finds. He replies without fail to every message or photo, even if it’s hours or days later, and he does so with an enthusiasm and interest that doesn’t feel like superficial politeness. He asks interesting questions about university life—not which teacher is the strictest or if Akiteru has a girlfriend yet, but where his favorite place to get ramen is and what music he likes to listen to while he studies. 

Somehow, without Akiteru realizing it’s happening, they start talking about more than just university and Karasuno. Their families, the types of careers they dream of and the types that they’re more likely to end up in, the stray cat Akiteru’s been feeding and that the snowdrifts have been as tall as Udai this year.

And yet still, Udai never asks him about his wings. He doesn’t mention them at all, nor their one honest conversation in high school about them, not even in a sidelong or hinting kind of way to invite Akiteru to talk about it.

The thing is, if it’s _not_ the wings Akiteru can’t imagine why Udai would keep in touch with _him_ , of all his former high school teammates. He’s Karasuno’s Little Giant, the gravity-defying little ace that even now is helping lead them into nationals; Akiteru had never even made it off the bench outside of short-lived practice and practice matches. They’d talked, sure, the way clubmates did; his failure to become a starting wing spiker wasn’t Udai’s fault, and even when it meant considerable effort he had always kept that bitterness as tightly furled and hidden as his wings (moreso, even, considering what had happened). And okay, Akiteru also hadn’t been immune to Udai’s messy dark curls and his weightless, game-changing spikes and the slightly manic passion in his eyes. He still isn’t.

But again and again Akiteru keeps coming back to the day Udai had seen his wings as their strongest connection. Otherwise surely there were any number of old teammates he’d rather have reached out to.

Once or twice, though he isn’t exactly proud of it, Akiteru leaves openings in their conversations like little traps that almost seem to beg for him to say something: a photo of a small, dusky songbird perched on the back of a campus bench, little anecdotes about other times they’d talked in high school that trail off in what he hopes is a deliberate fashion.

But Udai simply remains himself—warm, cheerful, usually positive, constantly inquisitive without being pushy. Except about the wings. 

Finally, Akiteru can’t take the tension anymore. 

So types out a text, deletes and re-types it several times while agonizing, and finally sends it while holding his breath. It’s on a weekday midmorning, the most innocuous and casual time he can think of to do such a thing.

_man, i didn’t really notice b4 but the way the seats r set up in a lot of classes here gets rly uncomfortable on my wings after a while_

The wait for the reply seems to take years. Akiteru is prepared to be ignored, to have Udai laugh it off like a joke, to receive an awkward, halting text asking if they’re really going to talk about this now, out of the blue.

His phone chimes.

_ah i didn’t even think about that?? that sucks, can u turn the desk so u can sit kinda sideways or is it the kind that are stuck to the floor?_

Akiteru stares at the screen. He may as well have told Udai his allergies were acting up from the tree pollen on campus, or that his ankle was bothering him from that one time he’d sprained it in third-year. It was like they’ve been discussing his wings for years and he’d completely forgotten the conversation where they’d agreed it was no big deal.

He can breathe, after that, an exhale he’d been holding much longer than that one text without ever realizing it. He’d always been relieved for a variety of reasons that it had been Udai who’d found out about his wings if someone had to, and Udai had never yet made him regret it. But he loves this new freedom, more than he can even admit to himself. Loves being able to make a casual reference to the fact that he’s a college student with wings growing from his back, and to have Udai respond as though that’s only to be expected, as if all his friends have wings. To have a safe place outside his family where he doesn’t have to pass everything he says through a filter, to make sure nothing that might give him away ever gets through.

At some point, he realizes he texts Udai more days than he doesn’t. A week later, they have their first video call. Akiteru, who has never done a video call with anyone other than his family and a professor, once, is unprepared for the way his whole body relaxes as soon as he sees Udai on the screen and hears his voice flicker through the speakers, overloud because he has his mic volume up too high. 

“ _Tsukishima-san!_ ” Udai crows, as Akiteru scrabbles for his own volume control. “ _Hey, it’s good to see your face!_ ”

And slowly, that becomes normal too.

******

_three years later_

It’s so different, being around Tsukishima in person. Tenma had almost tripped over his own feet in the parking lot when he’d spotted him, that familiar broad back and blond hair. Embarrassing, really, when it had been less than a month since the last time they’d had a video chat, less than a week since their last texts.

_still coming, right?_

_ofc, wouldn’t miss this one! seeing tanaka again will be fun too_

But it _is_ different, it’s all different, and it blends into a whirlwind that he does his best not to appear too visibly overwhelmed by. There’s Tsukishima, in the flesh, with his warm eyes and easy smile, who _hugs_ him as soon as he comes within range. There’s Tanaka, who has gotten a little taller and a lot fiercer and who is fully decked out in her taiko gear. 

Then he gets dragged to meet one of the new Karasuno players, the new generation’s own up and coming Little Giant, who looks at him with stars in his eyes. Tenma is very out of practice at having this kind of regard turned on him full force, but the kid’s energy and confidence resonates off a part of himself he remembers well, and he can’t say it’s a bad feeling.

But strangely, he feels more at ease once he’s up in the stands, a place he’s never spent too much time before. He’s known for a while that the volleyball court isn’t really his turf anymore, but it settles home now, looking down on it from above, shoulder to shoulder with Tsukishima. It feels right to be here, remembering fondly what it was like to fly but with his feet planted firmly on the ground.

He does grin when he glances over to see the Karasuno banner hanging from the stands in pride of place, the same elegantly swooping white calligraphy issuing its perpetual command to a new team of crows.

Then he thinks of the banner in a different context, and nudges Tsukishima very lightly with his elbow. It’s still throwing Tenma off, that’s he’s able to just casually reach out and _touch_ him after years of texts and video calls.

“Does it still feel like it’s mocking you?” Tenma asks, quietly enough that it’s mostly lost in the general dull roar of the stadium.

“Who’s mocking me?” asks Tsukishima distractedly, hands on the railing and eyes sweeping over the court below, clearly searching for someone in particular Tenma feels utterly and overwhelmingly fond; Tsukishima’s bond with his brother is a steadying trait, something that proves his core is unchanged. 

“The banner.” Tenma gestures toward it, realizing he’s going to feel very foolish if Tsukishima doesn’t even remember this part of their conversation from high school. If he’s been the only one that keeps going back to that talk and turning it over and over in his memory until it’s crinkly and soft at the edges.

“Oh.” The way Tsukishima focuses on the Karasuno banner all at once tells him that yes, he does remember. He almost regrets saying anything, until he sees that Tsukishima doesn’t look exhausted or tense the way he had in the gym that evening. He looks thoughtful.

“Not anymore, I think,” he says after a moment, resting his elbows on the railing. His profile looks so nice backlit by the bright stadium lights, the defined slopes of his nose and neck and shoulders. These are the things Tenma couldn’t appreciate through a phone or computer screen; Tsukishima in three dimensions, from different angles. “I mean, a lot of stuff in high school looks different now, but stuff about _that_ does too.”

Tenma knows what he means about high school—even as looking at the court and the young guys in their orange and black Karasuno colors gets his heart racing, he doesn’t truly feel sorry that he’s not down there. He’s only ever regretted leaving volleyball in that passing, homesick way you miss the things that helped shape you. And yet if someone had told him back then, the Little Giant him, that he’d feel like this one day, he’d never have believed them. Playing beside his teammates, aiming for nationals, carrying their hopes to the zenith of each one of his jumps...it felt like that passion would fuel him forever, an inexhaustible sun.

“I guess it’s just harder to think like that now,” Tsukishima continues, bringing him back into the stadium and the present. “I mean...look at me. Look at _Kei_.” He gestures to the court below, and Tenma picks out the telltale blond hair and height; he has none of the energy Tenma remembers Tsukishima bringing onto the court those brief times he was there in practice, but the same steadiness and surety.

“Back then, it always felt like I was holding my breath just waiting to screw up. And then when I did, it was like there was no way I was ever going to have a normal life if I couldn’t even make it through high school without someone finding out. Couldn’t make it in volleyball, couldn’t keep this huge, important secret, couldn’t even look cool for my little brother.” For a moment, he looks enough like the Tsukishima from high school that Tenma has to wrestle once again with the instinctive urge to reach for his hand.

“But!” Tsukishima claps his hands lightly, as if banishing this past cloud. “It passed, y’know? All of it did. I have a job I like, and I still play volleyball when I can even if I never got to stand on that stage. Kei still ended up falling in love with it in spite of me _and_ himself, and he’s doing better than I ever did. And,” Tsukishima grins at Tenma, “you’re still the only one I ever slipped up with as far as _these_ go.” He gestures casually over his shoulder, indicating the back of his shirt and what Tenma knows is under it.

“And you too,” Tsukishima nudges Tenma’s shoulder lightly with his own. “The Little Giant, angling to become a mangaka? I don’t think any of us would have called it, back then. But you like it, right?”

Tenma has never forgotten that of all his former teammates, Tsukishima never asked him why he decided not to pursue volleyball in university, why he chose an arts school instead of accepting a scholarship or trying out for a pro team. Even when Tsukishima had the most reason of anyone to resent that choice, to resent the boy who had flown on the court where he had sweat and bled and fought just to standfor three years, and who had simply set it all aside the moment he took off the orange and black jersey for the last time. He had never told Tsukishima this because he didn’t know how to put it into words without feeling like he was mocking his efforts. But every time Tenma got a thumbs-up emoji or a string of exclamation points in response to the photos he sent of his college classroom’s giant spread of art supplies or of the rough sketch layouts he made in his spare time, he felt so warm he sometimes thought he might melt.

“Yeah,” he says. “I like it a lot.”

“Ah, hey, they’re getting ready to start! I know you want to watch that Hinata kid because he’s your namesake and everything, but better keep your eyes on Kei too, he’s gotten crazy good at blocks.”

Tenma watches the younger Tsukishima pace across the court; everything about his body language is uninterested, but Tenma recognizes the focused way he’s watching the other side of the court, taking note of each player opposite the net. 

He’s curious, and Tsukishima’s mood seems relaxed enough that he says softly, “And he—he’s also getting on okay with his, uh, secret?” He hopes he hasn’t dug into a sore spot; even after years have passed he’s never forgotten that warning in the equipment room, Tsukishima’s hand clamped around his wrist. Tsukishima had talked about his brother plenty during their texts and chats, but never about his brother’s wings.

“Seems like it.” To his relief, Tsukishima doesn’t seem upset by the question now; if anything he looks fonder than ever. “Not that he really has heart-to-hearts with _me_ about it, but I think we’re tied as far as slip-ups go. And he’s the opposite of reckless most of the time, so I probably don’t need to worry.”

“Tied?” Tenma looks at him curiously, and Tsukishima lifts one finger slightly from the railing so he’s pointing without appearing to, indicating another player on the Karasuno side of the net. 

“Karasuno’s #12 knows, because of Kei. But he found out a long time before he was Karasuno’s #12, so Kei has you and me beat there, I guess.”

Tenma looks down at the unassuming freckled kid he hadn’t given a second glance to, suddenly feeling a burst of kinship. Here right in front of him is someone else who knew what that was like, to have your ordinary world rewritten one day, to catch a glimpse of the impossible. To know and befriend someone who carried such a secret, and to earn their trust with your discretion and your insistence on not leaving them to bear it alone.

He gets caught up in the game in spite of himself, secondhand pride surging every time Karasuno gets a service ace, pulls a shutout block, and every time he watches that fiery little #10 jump. He knows for sure, now, that whatever legacy he might have has passed into good hands.

When Karasuno wins the second set, they roar out their cheers at the exact same time. When Tenma looks over, he sees Tsukishima looking back the way he used to, his bright grin and his steady eyes. 

“Tsukishima,” he says, without thinking twice about it. There’s another question that’s been rising in him from the moment he’d seen Tsukishima outside the stadium, and this time he knows very well why he’s asking it. “After this, you wanna get a drink with me?”

******

On their way home an hour and a half past midnight, Tenma saves Tsukishima’s life. Or at least that’s how it feels. 

The drinks aren’t quite the celebration they’d hoped for, with Karasuno’s bitter loss, so their first beers go slowly and morosely as they talk through the various turning points of the game and what might have gone differently. It reminds Tenma a little too much of his old spirals, though, so when they order another round he deliberately changes the topic to his newest manga concept pitch. Tsukishima, who’s been gaining experience lately in being Tenma’s sounding board for ideas, latches onto the topic easily. He’s not completely sure how many beers go by after that; he’s having far too much fun watching Tsukishima react to each increasingly chaotic manga idea he brings up, and then laughing when Tsukishima starts suggesting his own.

Finally they decide, with the good-natured, easy logic of the intoxicated, that they might as well walk back to Tsukishima’s house together, since it’s just a kilometer or so, and then Tenma could get his taxi home from there. 

They purposely take quiet streets instead of the main road, and the cold empty night feels like a perfect contrast to the loud, smoky interior of the izakaya.

Tenma _thinks_ Tsukishima is drunker than he is, but he concedes that his stride feels uneven enough and his stomach warm enough that he might not be the best judge of it at the moment.

And then about four blocks in, Tsukishima catches his sneaker on an uneven square of pavement and nearly goes down flat on his face. 

Tenma isn’t sure how he manages to catch him in time with his own reflexes and sense of balance dulled, but he somehow gets both arms around him and leans back with most of his body weight to get him back upright. It’s a moment of pure adrenaline that’s almost enough to make him halfway sober by itself, and from the little shaky huff Tsukishima makes he’s not unaffected by it either.

“Please don’t die, Akiteru-kun,” Tenma says once they’ve stabilized, in between gasps of laughter, because the near miss seems funny now that it’s over.

The name still feels a little strange in his mouth; the same amount of edges and curves as ‘Tsukishima’ but in a different arrangement. Tsukish— _Akiteru_ had insisted over their beers at the izakaya that it was way past time he drop the formality.

“Why are you still calling me Tsukishima-san?” he had exclaimed loudly, flushed after only one and a half drinks. “Tsukishima-san is my _brother_!” Then he’d cracked up like this was a hilarious joke, which maybe it was, considering how Tenma had nearly inhaled a mouthful of his own beer in his ensuing fit of giggles. 

“You saved my life!” Akiteru says now, fondly, leaning into Tenma as though now that he’s lost his balance once he can’t quite find it again. Tenma drops the arm around Akiteru’s front that he’d used to catch him and moves it up across his shoulders. Akiteru cheerfully places his own arm around Tenma’s shoulders, as if this was an arrangement they’d come to.

It’s harder to walk like this, but Tenma reasons it’ll be easier to keep each other steady in case there’s another stumble. The plumes of their breath are mingling in the air, and Tenma can’t tell if the two of them are actually leaning closer together with each step or if it’s just his depth perception getting blurred by beer.

“So, how do I repay you?” Akiteru murmurs, his voice much softer now that their heads are closer together. Back at the izakaya the slight slur to his words had been amusing, typical drunk silliness, but in this lower tone it’s not silly at all. Tenma is warm from the alcohol and Akiteru’s body heat, but he shivers anyway.

He searches for a goofy thing to ask for as ‘repayment’, something that will make Akiteru laugh. It shouldn’t be hard; Tenma has learned that drunk Akiteru finds most things funny, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to hear his laugh as often as possible.

But then Tenma adjusts his arm across Akiteru’s shoulders and feels something soft and firm and strange beneath his shirt, and he thinks of something else to ask. Something he’s been trying to get up the courage to ask Akiteru for a long time, a question he’s stubbornly reined himself in from voicing ever since his second year of high school. 

But things feel different now. _He_ feels different now, tonight, his whole right side pressed up against Akiteru’s warmth, his head buzzing pleasantly, their faces close. Surely it’s been long enough. Akiteru doesn’t mind talking about his wings now, and he doesn’t feel like the Karasuno banner is mocking him anymore. They’re both adults, past the all-encompassing grip and hierarchy of wing spikers and aces and high school starting lineups.

Surely it’s safe to try, now.

Ironically, it feels like a burst of his old Karasuno recklessness that helps Tenma blurt it out, the alcohol smoothing the way for the words to leap from his brain to his tongue.

“Would you let me...see your wings?”

Akiteru stops walking, and this time it’s Tenma’s turn to nearly overbalance. Shit, he’s done it now. Too much, too far, too fast, and just when everything had felt so good, so close. His skin is still warm but the pit of his stomach feels like he’s swallowed ice. 

But instead of pulling away, or yelling, or looking at him with that frozen expression from high school...Akiteru laughs. 

_“Finally.”_ The word escapes as a great sigh that sends a huge plume of white into the night air. If anything, Akiteru actually leans into Tenma more, body shaking slightly with his mirth. “Tenma-kun, I know you were trying to keep it low key for me and I love that, but when you find out your friend has _actual, living wings_ and then don’t act even a little curious about it for five years, it made me worry a little bit.”

“Made _you_ worry?” Tenma croaks, even as the wave of relief makes him join Akiteru with his own weak laughter. “Excuse you, I was trying not to be an ass about it!”

“Hmm, is this why you wanted to go drinking?” Akiteru asks, taking the accusation out of the words with a little teasing grin. “You needed some liquid courage to finally ask me to see them?”

“ _No_ , geez! That’s different, I only thought of the other thing just now, and I...it’s stupid, don’t worry about it. Never mind.” Tenma feels extremely lucky that he’s flushed already; the way Akiteru is, either purposefully or accidentally, somehow making his request somehow sound kind of dirty isn’t helping with his embarrassment.

And then, to his utter disbelief and horror, Akiteru shrugs off Tenma’s arm, removes his own arm from around Tenma’s shoulders, and reaches unsteadily behind his own back to grab a handful of the fabric at the nape of his neck. Like he’s going to hike his shirt up _right this second_. 

Tenma panics. He grabs Akiteru’s hand and yanks it down and away before he can get a good grip, and then, not knowing what else to do, he holds it. Tightly. Just to prevent him from trying to take off his shirt again, of course.

“Not _now_!” Tenma hisses, so vehemently it actually makes him hiccup. “I didn’t—it’s not even that important, holy shit, what if someone else saw?!” Sure, it’s late and there’s no one immediately around, but Akiteruis drunk and _Tenma_ is drunk and he is very rapidly realizing he has no mental defense against this shift—from a high school Akiteru pale and exhausted from accidentally revealing his wings to this teasing, flushed Akiteru that was about to willingly do the same thing in the middle of a public sidewalk, just because Tenma had asked. He has no defense against what that’s doing to him.

Akiteru laughs, as if it’s all still part of a joke, and for a brief moment Tenma’s whirling emotions throw off a spark of anger, but then Akiteru adjusts his hand in Tenma’s grip so that their fingers mesh. “Thanks, Tenma-kun,” he says, and even though his voice is still slow and thick with alcohol, there’s something weighty in those two words. 

They’re quiet after that, the only sound the uneven rhythm of their steps on the pavement. They hold hands instead of holding each other up, but the warmth of Akiteru’s palm grounds Tenma in a similar way, and they still stay almost close enough for their arms to brush on every step.

When they reach the Tsukishimas’ street, Akiteru stops abruptly. He’s still swaying a little bit, but he’s correcting for it better now, shifting from foot to foot slightly so the movement looks like he’s listening to faint music instead of trying to keep his balance.

“Not here,” he says to the night air, enunciating each word carefully. “Not...tonight.” Tenma stares at him; he has very few brain cells left to devote to thought right now, so he simply waits for Akiteru to make sense.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Akiteru asks him. His sudden direct gaze as he says it makes it feel like it’s a test question, the kind for which there is a correct answer.

“N-nothing?” Sleep off the mild hangover in the morning, probably, and then Tenma would probably just laze around, maybe draw some new names if inspiration took him. “Why?”

“I have to thank you for saving my life, right? I’ll show you tomorrow.” 

“Show—?” Tenma’s heart skips. “Wait...really? Seriously, Akiteru-kun, if you’re not comfortable, you don’t—”

“I will,” says Tsukishima, and he’s still flushed but his words are clear now and not slurred at all. “I want to. I don’t have any reason to hide them from you, of all people.” Tenma thinks he might make a quiet strangled sound at that, and hopes Tsukishima didn’t hear. “But you were right, we should do it somewhere private. Shouldn’t tempt fate again. And...” Tsukishima looks away from him a little, and Tenma sees it’s not just his cheeks; his ears are red too. He didn’t think they’d been red at the izakaya, but maybe he just hadn’t noticed. “We should probably both be sober. To make sure we’re...thinking clearly.” 

Tenma can’t argue with that—he thinks that seeing wings on top of everything else that’s happened tonight might just be the last straw for his heart and nerves.

He barely registers that he’s still holding Akiteru’s hand until Akiteru presses it gently and then releases him, promising to text the next morning as soon as he’s awake.

******

Tenma hopes it’s a sign when he wakes the next morning without even a hint of a headache.

Via a barrage of texts they consider using one of their houses, as they’re both staying at home while in town, but somehow it doesn’t feel like this should be the reason they visit each other’s family homes for the first time. They both agree there would be a lot of parental questions either way.

Going somewhere on Karasuno grounds would be considered trespassing on a weekend, and most parks are too public. Finally, Tenma remembers the overlook.

The rising hills and mountains that back up against the area mean there are lots of paths that wind up their slopes, some paved for cars and bikes and others dirt trails for hikers and joggers on foot.

At various points on the way up, there are cleared spaces, somewhere between parks and parking lots, that offer panoramic views out across the trees, the houses, the streets— everything getting smaller and smaller from each successive overlook.

And some of these overlooks are harder to get to than others. The one Tenma takes them to is only reachable by a packed-earth trail that diverges from a main road, rather than one that’s naturally spaced along the way. Tenma remembers it from high school; when he had gone running or biking for stamina training on the weekends he had used the mountain trails a lot, and of course he’d wanted to know what was at the end of every unassuming trailhead and half-hidden path. And at the end of one of those paths he’d found the small overlook, hemmed in on three sides by trees but with the fourth side wide open to the air and the view.

Getting to it is more tiring than he remembers—he’s not exactly out of shape, but studying art and manga allows for a different type of lifestyle than volleyball, so it’s kind of embarrassing that he has to lengthen his strides even more than usual to keep up with Akiteru.

But once they’re there, he’s glad they’d chosen it.

It’s private in a different way than a bedroom or a deserted gym; secluded but not closed off, intimate but with no prior associations for either of them to cloud the air. And being outside like this is different from the clubroom back in high school. It’s brighter, since it’s only late afternoon instead of evening, and it feels more natural and more spacious without the lockers pressing in on both sides and the collapsed chaos of supplies Akiteru had once spilled in his panic. But it has the same dreamy, removed-from-time feel Tenma remembers from back then.

Perhaps because of that, Tenma finds he can’t completely settle, feeling restless and protective now that the moment has arrived. It’s Tenma who double-checks the path for other people, Tenma who calls out self-consciously to see if anyone happens to be around, Tenma who circles the perimeter of the the overlook four times to make certain they’re completely alone. Akiteru watches him do it with bright eyes and a little smile on his face, and drums his fingers lightly and ceaselessly against his thigh.

Finally Tenma turns to face him almost solemnly, and exhales. Akiteru raises his eyebrows. “Ready?”

Tenma is not sure how ready anyone is ever supposed to be for seeing living proof that impossible and fantastical things like people with wings exist in the universe. He thought he’d be able to smile or make a joke to lighten the atmosphere when the time came, but now that he’s actually here, he finds he can’t bring himself to. Everything he wants to say sounds like either too much or too little, so instead he just nods.

Akiteru turns away from him, facing towards the tree line. Instead of grasping his shirt between his shoulders the way he had the night before, he crosses his arms in front of him and wraps his fingers around the hem.

Distantly, Tenma realizes that his own fingertips are tingling, the way they always used to just before a spike, the sensation that comes when his entire body and mind are united in anticipation.

Akiteru takes off his shirt the same way he must have that day Tenma had surprised him in the clubroom, slowly peeling it up off his torso, lifting his arms over his head to work it up and over. He doesn’t get stuck this time, and the shirt comes off cleanly into his hands.

Then he stands there, still facing away from Tenma, who is now staring at the reverse of a memory from five years ago, the back side of the photograph he’d had captured in his mind all this time.

Tsukishima Akiteru’s wings.

They’re no different than when Tenma had seen them years ago, in the fading evening light. The smooth curves at the top, the sharp inverted-V shape of their span, the slight iridescence that makes them look like they’d be the texture of silk if he touched them. The browns and grays of the feathers are warmer and less shadowed in the sunlight, and the way they blend subtly into one another like strokes of paint is clearer. 

He can also see things he couldn’t before, from this angle and this close up, and it makes the wings feel more real, and paradoxically more human. The way they flow seamlessly into a dense, defined swathe of muscle and tendon that spreads from either side of Akiteru’s upper spine out to the blade of each shoulder. The way the left wing is slightly and permanently bent, leaving him wondering if its story is closer to the story of a birthmark or the story of a scar. The way he can visualize where the bones are joined just from the movement as Akiteru spreads them wide. The way they rise and fall and stir very slightly in time with his breathing.

His breathing, which Tenma realizes is just a little too quick and shallow at the moment. And those heavily muscled shoulder blades are hunched slightly, making the tops of his wings curve a little higher.

Tenma looks away from the wings immediately and sees that Akiteru’s fingers are curled up by his sides, not quite fists but like maybe he’s trying to keep them from shaking. 

With the kind of clarity that reminds him of the moment of suspension at the height of a jump when all that mattered was the view from the top, Tenma knows the question he wants to ask now. The one he’s probably wanted to ask for a very long time.

“Hey, Akiteru-kun,” Tenma breathes, and the tingling in his hands is in his chest now, in his stomach and his throat. “Look at me?”

Akiteru’s wings fall slack as he turns, the beginnings of something resigned starting behind his eyes, a smile starting just as quickly to hide it. “Well, that was quick. I thought you wanted to see—”

Tenma kisses him, rougher than he means to because he has to surge up to reach his mouth, but with the way Akiteru’s breath catches it doesn’t seem like he minds. He makes a little questioning, surprised noise that melts into a groan when Tenma licks into his mouth, finally, finally allowing himself to be impatient. He can feel the warmth of Akiteru’s bare skin through his shirt, the shape of his chest and ribs and collarbone, and Tenma finds these things are every bit as fascinating as the wings.

It’s still not enough, though, to satisfy the newly sparked electric current that’s surging through him—he needs to move, he needs to be closer, he needs something to do with his hands. So since Akiteru doesn’t seem to be inclined to move away from him anytime soon, Tenma slips his arms around those broad shoulders and hops up to erase the last of the space between them. He has to put a little momentum into the balls of his feet to do it, but he has the muscle memory of ten thousand jumps to aid him. Only when Akiteru’s arms go around his waist to keep him there does he dare to let his hands roam. 

Even after everything, there’s still a moment when he freezes as his grasping fingers brush feathers, but it’s less from the sensory shock and more from the sudden fear he’s overstepped a personal boundary—they hadn’t really established if the wings were a ‘look but don’t touch’ scenario. But almost immediately Akiteru is murmuring “S’fine, don’t mind, don’t mind,” between their mouths and Tenma gasps a laugh and moves again, his palms touching skin, feather, muscle, feather, skin, the combination dizzying and wonderful. They’d waited on purpose to be sober for this, but Tenma feels like he might as well still be drunk for all that he can think past the waves of heat that rise and fall inside him every time Akiteru sighs against his mouth.

Somewhere along the line they both surrender to gravity and end up on the ground, Akiteru sitting with Tenma in his lap, coming down slowly from the frantic high of satisfying long-held curiosities that have nothing to do with wings. The need for air finally makes Tenma drop his head to Akiteru’s chest, though he doesn’t allow even a sliver of space to form between their bodies. At some point Akiteru’s hands had ended up under Tenma’s shirt in the interests of exploratory fairness, and now they trace slow, loose circles up and down his back. 

“After all that, you barely looked, did you? I can’t decide,” Akiteru mumbles into his shoulder, where Tenma can feel the tilt of his smile. “Whether that means you like them that much or you’re just really freaked out by them and wanted to distract me.”

“Neither.” Tenma is still breathless, heart still going wild in the best way. “I just realized it doesn’t matter. You trusting me is enough.”

It makes Tenma feel foolish in hindsight, that part of him had been so fixated on this, as if finally seeing Akiteru’s wings up close would make him a different person somehow. As if he hadn’t started falling in love with him back in high school before he’d ever set foot in the clubroom that evening, as if he hadn’t fallen the rest of the way across texts and video calls without them even being in the same room.

“You always work so crazy hard at everything, and even when you have to live with hiding something that big every day of your life you’ve always been funny and smart and easy to talk to. And you trusted me with that secret all this time, even though I was just your cocky ace kohai in high school who found out by accident.” Tenma presses his cheek firm against Akiteru’s chest, so he can hear the rush of his heartbeat in his ear like an ocean. “Basically, you’re amazing and very hot and I like _you_ , with or without wings.”

That makes Akiteru pull back, only to lean back in to kiss _him_ this time, slower than before but so much more thoroughly, until Tenma has to press his fingernails into his own palms so the sting can remind him that this isn’t the place for them to lose themselves like this.

But he doesn’t have to go back to university for three more days. And it _is_ still the weekend.

“Hey, Akiteru,” Tenma asks, grinning, unable to resist the urge to steal one more kiss, just one more. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

******

_five years later_

“Can you do like….forty-five degrees, maybe? Towards me?” 

Akiteru is sitting shirtless and cross-legged on the bed, reading work emails on his phone, but his shoulder flexes as he curves his right wing slightly toward Tenma’s desk, fanning the primaries out. The soft hiss of Tenma’s pen starts up, the rhythm of short and long strokes a lulling Morse code. 

“‘Kay, now unfold it kind of slowly...swear you’ll tell me if I’m being annoying with this, Aki.”

“Are you kidding? I’m honored to be a part of Shonen Vie history.” Akiteru folds the wing in close to his spine, and then deliberately extends it a few centimeters at a time, a time-lapse of movement. When it’s fully extended, he holds it in position and clears his junk mail folder with a final tap, and then sets his phone down on the bedside table, stretching both arms above his head with a soft groan of relief. 

Several minutes later, Tenma echoes him in sound and gesture, although _his_ groan sounds like it’s pulled out from deep down in his soul somewhere.

“Page done?” Akiteru asks, though he knows very well what the sound means. Even before he and his wings became a living reference for the recently introduced fallen angel character in _Zombie Knight Zom’bish_ , he’d sat up late with Tenma plenty of times like this.

“Yup. But I do still have five more to ink before—”

As if on cue, an alarm on his phone chimes merrily and flashes the time as _02:00_ , and Akiteru grins. “Pen down, Udai-sensei. It’s bedtime.”

Tenma mock scowls as Akiteru scoots off the bed, relaxing his wings to let them hang loose. He reaches out as though he’s going to stroke Tenma’s cheek, and then quickly darts the hand behind his head to loose the ponytail that keeps his mane of hair out of his way while working.

“Ugh,” Tenma protests, but it’s a half a laugh as his hair spills free around his shoulders, and Akiteru will never get over the unfairness of him somehow looking so good with it both tied back and down.

“C’mon, you’ve basically been living in that hoodie, at least take it off to sleep. I feel underdressed here.” Tenma’s response is to silently hold out both his arms like a child. Akiteru rolls his eyes, but it’s as fond as Tenma’s protest. 

He takes Tenma by the wrists and tugs him up out of his ergonomic desk chair, three stumbling steps across the room, and straight into the bed in an ungraceful tangle of limbs. Akiteru knows how this goes, so he quickly works the sweatshirt up and over Tenma’s unresisting torso and arms and head and tosses it off onto the carpet somewhere. 

He steals a brief, self-indulgent moment to spoon Tenma close against him, his skin still warm and smelling like the worn cloth of the hoodie...and then it’s a race to get Tenma’s head on the pillow, his body in a semi-normal sleeping position, and at least most of him under the covers while he’s still conscious. It’s a time trial Akiteru has gotten fairly good at, after he’d realized that whenever Tenma pulled late nights there was basically an invisible countdown that started the moment his body made contact with any reasonably soft horizontal surface.

Tenma, for his part, will either help to the best of his ability (which usually doesn’t amount to much) or will actively obstruct Akiteru’s efforts for his own amusement, depending on his mood. Tonight it’s somewhere in between, with Tenma essentially going boneless and surrendering himself to being manhandled into position across the already messy bedding.

“Hey, stay with me!” Akiteru orders, giving Tenma’s shoulder an affectionate slap as he tries to wrestle a layer of blanket over his sprawled limbs. Tenma’s response is an extremely unconvincing snore.

Finally, Akiteru calls it close enough; Tenma has a pillow, enough covers that he won’t catch a cold, and he’s lying with his head in the general direction of the headboard. He strips his own work slacks and grabs a random pair of sweatpants from the floor; they could be his or Tenma’s, but either are fair game anyway.

The moment Akiteru climbs in and stretches out on his stomach next to him, Tenma rolls toward him without opening his eyes and burrows into the curve of Akiteru’s neck and shoulder, lifting one arm to drape across his back. The soft huff of breath against his collarbone sounds pleased. “Mmmm, good work today,” Tenma mumbles, somehow cheeky even when he’s half-asleep.

“That’s _my_ line,” Akiteru tells him, turning his head to mouth Tenma’s neck, under his ear, then to nip the shell of the ear itself to give himself at least the illusion of retaliation. “Good _night_ ,” he murmurs, with affectionate finality. 

It’s probably seconds instead of minutes now before Tenma crashes. He gives a little humming sigh through his nose and dips his fingers lazily down to stroke the edge of one wing and then back up to the curve of Akiteru’s bare shoulder. When the rhythm of this movement finally slows and stops, Akiteru knows he’s out. He makes some final adjustments to the blankets in preparation for them likely being stolen from him over the next few hours, carefully sets his phone alarm without disturbing Tenma, and finally gives himself fully over to the tangle of their embrace.

Tenma presses himself a little bit closer without waking, and in the soft dark, Akiteru stretches his wings and falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> *Storm petrels are the smallest type of seabird; they’re capable of flying through storms because they can dart between and over the crests of waves, and will return for life to their chosen mate and home nesting site. They are also pretty cute. ([1](https://seabirdsjapan.zohosites.com/files/StormPetrelJP/MA_8283%20\(1\).jpg), [2](https://www.researchgate.net/profile/David_Shoch/publication/298435850/figure/fig2/AS:651167864459264@1532261925477/Type-1-presumed-Grant-s-Band-rumped-Storm-Petrel-off-Hatteras-North-Carolina-26-July.png), [3](https://cdn.britannica.com/44/125844-004-C1FA53AF/storm-petrel.jpg))
> 
> *I tried my best to consult manga canon for the ins and outs of timelines and Akiteru and Tenma’s generation of Karasuno, but I’m sure there’s still some wonkiness somewhere, so please forgive or overlook that~


End file.
